Revenge Served Coldest
by XTheTr00perX
Summary: With Tamriel rid of the Oblivion incursion, the people of Cyrodiil embraced peace, but it was fleeting; a new tyrant has appeared, one who unhinged Skingrad from the Empire, outlawed the use of magicka, and hides in the obscurities of a shadowy alliance..


**Revenge Served Coldest**

by Calvin McCorkle

"With the authority granted unto me by His Highness, Lord Athas, I hereby condemn you, Janus Hassildor—for affiliating with Magic Ilk, partaking in the use of magicka, and conspiring to usurp His Majesty's throne—to be hanged by the neck until dead." The black-clothed magister struck his gavel down with a resounding whack and at once the audience erupted with noise.

The spectators were split into two nearly even groups, both above and below the white marble mezzanine: the left side of the courtroom cheered in unanimous approval, and the right side roared their disagreement at the conviction. What had begun as furor intended for the swiftly-paling magister quickly turned to punches being thrown when one half of the courtroom noticed the other half approving the conviction. Soon they were all embroiled in one enormous brawl.

The side that approved the verdict consisted largely of New Loyalists, and the other was mostly Faithfuls. The inmost columns of each side were the first to land blows, but gradually they all milled in toward the middle to take up the fight. Several Faithfuls swung their legs over the knee-high balustrade and began to clamber over while those on the mezzanine flooded down into the courtroom proper. The magister, ashen now, shoved his gavel into his robes and stuffed his papers into a haphazard pile. He shot one last askance glance at the scant handful of guards cordoning off the magister's dais from the growing mob and scurried away.

He fled through an open door near the back of the courtroom and a small contingent of armored guards stepped in after him. Hands gripping hilts, they stalked forward to assist the others in holding back the furious Faithfuls. One guard, the tallest of the bunch, held forward a gauntleted hand with extended fingers and attempted to bellow an order over the rising uproar, but before he could begin a stray fist caught him across the jaw. A bruise already beginning to form on his jowl, the guard growled and reared back his fist to return the punch. At once, any remaining order left the courtroom.

The man who struck the guard took the impact of the counterpunch fully to his face. Blood squelched between his nose and the guard's gauntlet and he fell limply to the floor. As the crowd pushed their way forward, the body was trampled, lost to sight. The other guards, torn between holding back the mob and restraining the tallest guard—who now knocked back any who had the audacity to step within three feet of him—were quickly overwhelmed.

Feric watched the riot distractedly from where he stood in an open doorway atop one of the room's many long staircases. Guards succumbed to their breaks and bruises here and there, but more often it was the Faithfuls who fell. Feric was hardly surprised. None of them were trained in combat; the Faithfuls had been too occupied getting the Count back to power rather than training their scarce number of soldiers. The guards,

though, were well-trained warriors when the Count still ruled the land, and were even more so now that Athas held power. He still wondered why the Count had ordered them to obey Athas rather than join with the Faithful. Perhaps to avoid unneeded deaths.

Normally Feric would have been amused by the petty brawl, but the circumstances altered his reaction. Months of trials, briberies, uprisings, and assassinations; it all boiled down to this one moment. And now Janus Hassildor, former Count of Skingrad, was to be executed. At least, that was his conviction. Feric knew the Count would either break free or die trying. Never would he cede to be led to the gibbets.

Face ashen, Feric merely watched the proceedings of the courtroom below. He appeared outwardly unemotional, but his mind was in a tumultuous state. He had half-expected the Count to be released from custody today, to be cleared of any and all charges. They had no evidence that Hassildor had had a hand in any of the uprisings throughout Skingrad, and plenty of proof to support the contrary. The Imperial Scrolls stipulated that no citizen of the Empire was ever to be falsely imprisoned or held indefinitely without due cause. Without proper evidence, the jailors were legally forbidden from holding Hassildor any longer than they had already. If anything, Feric had expected another trial without result. There had been several already, four in the last two weeks; each one had been annulled midway due to errors in procedure. Another mistrial and word would have been sent to the Elder Council, and then possibly to the Emperor himself. But Athas had found a loophole, one that not only rid him of his problem but also allowed him to escape from this tragedy unscathed. Feric had not expected execution.

Suddenly a shirtless man appeared in the crowd, a muscular Nord whose presence drew Feric's attention like a hawk's eye to prey. He was tall, taller even than the tallest of the guards and was large, too, thick with corded muscle. He held something in a death grip in one hand, something metal and oblong. Feric craned his neck to get a better look, but his vantage was limited. Sunlight spilled in through the dormer windows overhead and glinted off the man's bald head, making it all the more difficult to get a proper view of him.

Feric watched the man as he made his way to the irresolute line of guards blocking the exit the magister had taken. None of the guards had their weapons drawn and each looked wildly in different directions; not one of them noticed the bald man as he rapidly drew nearer to them. He moved with a purpose, and slipped past any obstructions in his path with fluid motion, but at the same time he stalked in a way that did not underemphasize his violent intentions. Even if the man broke through the guards, though, Feric did not see any way that he would find the magister. The magister had escaped quicker than Feric thought possible of a man as plump as he.

The bald man clenched his jaw and his mouth formed a thin line. His eyes darted below a thick furrowed brow, searching the courtroom for something, or someone. Feric took a step forward, narrowed his vision on the man, and drew upon his magicka. He delved into the man's mind but something stopped him almost immediately, a ward of sorts. Something about this man was wrong. Very wrong.

Of a sudden everything changed. The bald man raised the metal object in his hand and a column of purple flame shot forth from it with the sound of a thunderstroke. Feric paled. It was a sword hilt.

The strange purple blade hovered an inch above the hilt as the man raised it overhead to bring down on an unknowing guard. The guard, one of the four protecting the Count from the riot, recoiled at the noise of the thunderstroke, as did everyone, but he was unaware of the threat only steps away from him.

Feric wanted to look away, but he could not. The bald man brought down his blade, and the guard's strangled yelp cut off as he split clean in half with a hiss like hot steel being dipped in water. The mass of quarreling people went silent as heads turned and necks craned to peer at the source of the loud sound. Then, an instant later, screams ripped from every throat. People pushed and shoved to escape the danger, tripping over their own legs and sprawling across the courtroom floor in the process.

The man looked past them, though, and past the guards, too, almost like they were nonexistent to him. Feric followed his gaze and realized with alarm that the bald man was staring blades at the figure of Janus Hassildor being led to the dungeon by the escort of bewildered guards.

"By the Nine…" Feric muttered with consternation. So the man was not after the magister. He was here for the Count. But that could only mean…

Feric flew forward. His hand shot to the handle of the bow strapped across his back and he slowly armed himself, drawing two arrows from the quiver at his side and nocking both of them while he made his way fluidly through the crowd. He hoped it would not come to violence. He knew it would, but he hoped it wouldn't.

Bow at the ready, he glided down the stairs. The crowd noticed his weapon and moved around him like a river parting for a bridge abutment. They shoved past him to escape, screaming and bellowing curses and prayers. Some of them stumbled and fell only to roll down the stairs, push themselves to their feet, and continue their mad scramble out of the building.

Feric kept his unwavering gaze on the bulky man in the distance and took sure aim. He moved easily down the staircase, never missing a step but never looking for the next one. By now, most of the people in the room had cleared out except for the guards, the Count, the bald man, and Feric, although there were a few stragglers still fighting in knots throughout the room. He ignored them, and watched as the man drew steadily nearer to the Count with his sword raised high enough that a simple flick of his hand would maim anybody who dared to step in his path. The Count, unaware of the approaching danger, looked around wildly for the cause of the new clamor.

Two guards stepped abruptly in front of the man and took heavy swings at him with broad, double-bladed axes. Feric prayed to the Nine Divines that the guards would subdue him, but with minimal effort the man parried the strokes and countered with a flurry of his own. His blade slashed across both the guards' chests and from their grisly wounds shone an odd purple and black light. The same light shone in their eyes and they hovered above the ground for a moment before slumping dead to the floor.

Feric quickened his pace, taking long, brisk strides. His grip on his sword tightened with every step. His suspicion had been confirmed. This man belonged to the Dread Lord Mannimarco.

The bald man stopped just before the Count, who by now had realized the danger he was in. Three guards stood in a half circle around Hassildor, but when the man raised his sword, theirs clattered to the floor and they ran with terrified yelps. Feric expected the man to sneer, but no semblance of a smile cracked his stone-faced resolve. Instead, his attention simply shifted to the Count.

Feric swore loudly. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

He took several running steps in preparation for the jump. The large man swung his sword down.

Feric dove forward, still a good twenty paces from the man and the Count, and brought up his bow. In one smooth action he let the two arrows fly and the moment his hand released the bow string a small ball of flame ignited in his palm. With a grunt, he pushed the flame forward.

The first arrow glanced off the hilt of the bald man's blade, and the second flew straight into the odd purple flame but was quickly engulfed. Despite their failure to cause any direct damage, the arrows produced the effect Feric wanted—the man's attention was on him now. Just as the man turned to the new threat, the ball of flame collided with his chest. He staggered back as inferno enveloped him. Feric hit the ground and rolled to his feet. His bow dropped to the white marble floor with a clack. Quickly he armed himself with a short sword from the black scabbard belted to his waist.

The flame vanished just before Feric reached the man. Quickly he sent another column of flame spiraling toward his enemy. Already recovered from the last attack, the man raised his weapon calmly, just in time to intercept the spell. The blaze burst in midair before the sword, but surprisingly it did only that; it stopped just in front of the sword, as if an invisible barrier warded off Feric's enchantment. Feric grunted grudgingly and severed the flow of magicka to the spell. The flame winked out.

Finally unhindered by enchantments, the man roared and held his arms out straight on both sides. He tilted his head to face the ceiling and continued roaring at the roof, his voice deepening into something bestial. Feric considered firing more spells but the man, ensorcelled with his own protection, would not be harmed by it, so he decided against wasting his magicka.

Of a sudden the vaulted ceiling—eaves and all—ripped away skyward, carried by a heavy wind that appeared from nowhere. Feric was forced to bury his face in the nook of his elbow as shards of glass and splintered wood showered down over him. The man's eyes blackened, starting at the irises and spreading gradually into the whites. A beam of purple light shot down from the maelstrom of black striated clouds above. It hit the floor and glowed in a circle around the man. Feric jumped back to avoid being touched by the light, whatever it was, and his grip tightened on his sword in haunting realization.

This man was a full-fledged Necromancer, one the Dread Lord's elite, not just a mere servant as Feric had suspected earlier. He swallowed loudly and his hope plummeted.

The Necromancer absorbed the purple light, and as it seeped into him it shined all the brighter. As it shone more intensely, large black tattoos rose all across his torso and around his waist—the tattoos of the Dread Lord, Mannimarco.

The scaly tattoos crawled across the man's middle and ended with two horned tails running up along both sides of his neck, stopping just under his jaw line. A purplish glow lit the edges of the tattoos.

The walls around them began to tremble and a gale picked up within the building, hurling various items and debris to and fro and threatening to take Feric's footing away. A heavy gilded tome swished by just inches in front of his face. He dodged the flying volume but barely sidestepped the subsequent swing of the Necromancer's flaming sword. The tip of the blade whistled a hairsbreadth away from his shoulder. He reprimanded himself firmly. He was being reckless and focusing too much on killing the man rather than defending himself. The Necromancer's talent with a blade was plain, as was his fury, and Feric could not afford to be careless, or he would be slain in an instant.

His heart pounding in his ears, Feric dodged another attack deftly while he searched for a weakness in the Necromancer's defenses. To his dismay, the magical shield surrounding the man appeared seamless. The Scrawl it was written with flowed effortlessly and weaved in and out of itself in a way that made breaking it seem a futile endeavor. To make matters worse, he was completely unfamiliar with the shield itself. He had never witnessed one of its ilk before now, or had to break through one for that matter. However, although he did not recognize the shield, he knew that Necromancers were not overly creative when it came to spell-writing. Most of their enchantments were written very similarly, for meddling with death restricted them to few liberties.

The light winked out abruptly and an unnerving silence followed. Then suddenly a deafening noise came from all around them as a rift ripped through the white marble floor, a widening chasm that split the courtroom in two and cracked the magister's bench in half. Feric dove to the side to avoid being caught in its path. He succeeded in evading the rift, but not the marble projectiles it sent hurtling through the air toward him. He swore in surprise when a chunk of serrated marble hit his brow and drew blood.

The Necromancer cut off his roar and held the sword out at his side. Purple flames danced on the flat of the blade and now in his eyes, as well. He spoke with a voice that made Feric want to scrabble away, one impossibly deep for a man, no matter how large.

"Father has marked this one for dead, fool." With a sharp jerk of his head the Necromancer indicated the Count, who now stood behind Feric; Hassildor had sidled away from him when his attention snapped to Feric. "You will step aside or die."

Feric did not break stance. He hardly listened and instead searched frantically for a weakness in the Necromancer's shield. He felt a slight tremor at one point and hacked against that portion of the Scrawl with his magicka.

The shield shuddered from the impact. Exhilaration flooded through him. The shield was ready to break, if only he could delay the Necromancer for another minute.

But the man did not give him another minute. When Feric did not step out of his way, the Necromancer began his attack without any further warning.

He swung his sword down and Feric parried it just in time. When the two swords clashed, painful quivers shot up his arms. He winced, but tried to put the pain out of his mind. He had to break the shield; he did not have time to pay his pain any heed.

He targeted the weakest area of the shield and sent more flames spinning toward it. When the flames hit, the shield trembled precariously and his heart thumped even faster. It was almost ready to shatter.

The Necromancer knew that his shield was failing. He staggered back when the flames hit and glared through the purple blazing caverns of his eyes. "You will never defeat the Father of Darkness," he snarled. "He will dispose of this petty Liaison—" he gestured at Count Hassildor "—and will stamp out the residuals of your Mage's Guild, whatever the cost. He will not relent until your broken faction lays in complete ruin at the Archmage's feet!"

Feric grimaced and drew upon the heart of his magicka. A small yellow light blossomed in his hand and immediately he felt it drain his energy. He fed the spell and focused it on the largest fracture in the shield. The spell was pure magicka, the greatest force a magic-wielder could draw upon. To do so unscrupulously could drain him of his life-force completely, so Feric summoned very little, just enough to do what had to be done.

"Save your drivel for the Father of Lies." With a roar he sent the yellow orb hurtling forward. The light crashed into the Necromancer and a blood-curdling scream ripped from his throat, but it lasted only a second before he burst into flames and then to ashes. The moment he fell, a bright flash lit the room. Feric squinted and shielded his eyes with the back of one hand. When the bright light tapered away, he noticed the room was normal once again, almost as if nothing had ever happened to it. The ceiling was repaired, the floor was whole, the leather-bound volumes were back on their shelves, and the paintings no longer hung askew.

Exhausted, Feric fell to one knee, panting, and his sword clattered to the floor beside him. Trails of sweat made glistening tracks through the dust on his face, dust from the flying debris that was now nowhere to be seen.

Weakly he raised his head. In front of him was a small heap of ash. Wispy tendrils of smoke rose from the gritty pile. It appeared harmless, like it had never caused any damage to the world. Feric shook his head disbelievingly. Of all the things he had expected to take place at the trial today, a Necromancer was not among them.

He gazed at the sword to his left. Char completely blackened one side of it, where it had contacted the Necromancer's sword. He did not want to imagine what that flaming sword would have done if it had touched his flesh. Abruptly he remembered the guard splitting in two with a loud hiss. He swallowed the bitter bile rising in his throat.

"Thank you, Feric." Feric looked up just as the Count laid a large hand on his shoulder. "You've saved my life again."

Feric smiled weakly. "That makes three times. I hope next time it is you saving me."

Hassildor chuckled but the shakiness in his voice was plain. "I do not think you fully understand the trepidation of hovering so close to death's threshold, my friend."

"I know the feeling better than you." Memories flashed through his mind all at once of all the times he had nearly drawn his last breath. There were more occasions than he could count on both hands.

Count Hassildor nodded pensively, as if considering the veracity of Feric's claim. "Perhaps," was all he said. "Perhaps."

Feric rolled back onto his knees and took the courtroom in with bleary eyes. All was as it should have been. Nothing suggested that there had been a fight here only moments ago. He shook his head. So the Necromancer had been using Illusion spells the whole time, not Dark Magic. _Odd,_ he thought,_ that a Necromancer would use a school of magicka not condoned by the Dread Lord. Perhaps he was an independent agent._ In the end he decided it did not matter—the Necromancer was dead, and Hassildor was not.

"Shall we leave this place now?" Feric asked.

The Count glanced over his shoulder at the two thick oaken doors set in the farthest wall. "Soon," he replied, "but first, I think we would be remiss were we not to free our imprisoned brethren here while the opportunity was available to us. Follow me to the holding cells."

The finely hewn and polished doors belied the true squalid upkeep of the holding cells inside. The moment Feric and Hassildor pushed the doors open, rats and spiders scurried out of sight and a malodorous odor washed over the two of them. The corridor led forwards a way and then cut to the right, to the holding cells. They stepped around the corner and were met by painful moans coming from a handful of the eight cells set at even intervals throughout the seedy hall. A repugnant stench lay heavy on the air. Repulsed, Feric's mouth twisted with disgust and he pulled his cloak up to cover his nose and mouth.

One by one they searched the cells. Oddly, most of them were vacant or home to decaying skeletons splayed pitifully across the floor. Filth and grime lined the walls, and Feric found it was the heaps of excrement in each cell that caused the repellent odor. The first live prisoner they found was not one of the captured Faithfuls, but a murderer Hassildor himself had had thrown in prison just before he was usurped by Athas. That was nearly a year ago. Apparently this man had never made it to the prison. Feric couldn't help but feel a bit rueful for him. The prisoner stared pure hatred at the Count when they passed by, but gave no other indication that he even knew the Count was there.

With four cells empty and another holding the murderer, only three cells remained to search. Feric thanked the Nine when his eyes passed over the small knots of cowering Faithfuls in the first two cells. The metal doors did not budge at first, but when Feric and the Count applied more pressure they moved with groans loud enough to draw the attention of anybody in the courtroom. Feric glanced worriedly down the hall and prayed that the court was still empty. He could have used magic to stifle the sound, or even to open the cell, but that would have been a waste of energy, and he did not have much left to spare.

The prisoners scrabbled out of their cells and immediately headed for the exit with thank-you's spilling over their tongues. When they were safely through the oaken doors, Feric moved on to the final cell and his mouth dropped open with shock when he saw who slouched against one wall within.

"Raminus?" he asked numbly.

The gaunt figure in the cell raised his head slightly and looked at Feric through dead, sunken eyes and a forest of overgrown bangs. He wore a tattered robe and only one shoe; the foot revealed by the other missing blue suede shoe was covered with scratches and scrapes. Pointed cheekbones jutted out from a malnourished face.

Count Hassildor hurried to Feric's side. "Raminus!" he shouted, both with relief and dismay. "Are you alright?"

Raminus mumbled something inaudibly, and after prompted to repeat himself said with a hoarse voice, "Athas." He paused. "Mannimarco." After the second name, he stopped and coughed painfully.

The sound of Raminus's coughs sent prickles running up Feric's back. Raminus was suffering from some ailment, he could tell, and it appeared he would succumb to it soon. He doubted they would get him out of here alive. He didn't see any visible injuries on him, though. Perhaps there was still some hope.

"Get this door open," Hassildor ordered, already pulling on the cell door to get it free. Feric gripped two bars on the bottom and yanked with all the strength he could muster. It took several attempts, but after several tries the door lay on the ground with dust billowing up around it and the two of them were crouched beside Raminus, supporting him as best as they could.

Feric procured a half-filled waterskin from within his cloak and held it to Raminus's chapped lips. Raminus took a grateful gulp but spit it up suddenly with a violent cough, as if he could not get it down his throat.

"No," he wheezed, and Feric held back the waterskin. "I can't . . . water. No."

Hassildor frowned and ran his eyes up and down the length of Raminus's body, looking for an injury that would prevent him from drinking. "You can't drink water?"

Raminus nodded to show that this was correct. He pointed to his throat with a limp hand. "Mannimarco came here . . . cursed."

Feric shot to his feet and pulled his sword out with a resonating ring. "Are they still here?" he demanded, searching the shadows for any signs of movement.

Raminus shook his head faintly. "Gone now. Many . . . many . . . days ago." Suddenly his eyes fluttered and his head lolled forward onto his chest.

Hassildor cursed and propped Raminus's head up, "To keep him from choking on his tongue," he explained. Feric doubted that lifting his head would do much to prevent something of that sort, but decided not to question the Count's actions.

While he was unconscious, Raminus's eyelids twitched incessantly, like he was having a nightmare. After a few long minutes, he finally awoke with a painful noise that rumbled from deep within his throat. He shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "Leave," he said breathlessly. "Leave now. They are coming." Beads of sweat hung to his forehead and the sunken skin below his eyes.

"Who?" Hassildor demanded. "Who is coming?"

Raminus's expression took them both in. His face wilted with fear and pain. "Athas . . . is with . . . Manni . . ." Before he could finish the last word, his head rolled back and his eyelids opened to stare eternally. The corpse expelled its last breath through an open mouth.

Feric swore loudly and jammed his sword home with a force that made his scabbard rattle. "Athas is in league with Mannimarco?" he asked disbelievingly.

Hassildor nodded as he slowly stood up. "I had my suspicions of this already." He stepped out of the cell, looked both ways down the dark corridor, and headed toward the exit.

Feric glared at his back reproachfully but followed nevertheless. "Why wouldn't you tell me that?"

"I had my reasons," he said. He looked back at Feric over his shoulder. "Not to mention that I've been held prisoner for the last several months."

Feric half-smiled, a smile that he wiped away abashedly at remembering that Raminus had just died. "I forgot. But if they are allied, why would Mannimarco send a Necromancer assassin to kill you while you attended the trial Athas set for you?"

Hassildor shrugged. "Likely because he knew the trial would fail and someone would be sent to try and rescue me. Or mayhap the trial was just a pretense to convince the Elder Council that the assassin had no relation to Athas. Either way—"

He stopped abruptly as a noise shuffled behind them. Instantly Feric had his blade out. He turned, ready to attack, but lowered his sword at what he saw.

Raminus stood outside his cell. Shadow shrouded him completely, but two purple eyes shone in the blackness like flaming beacons of danger.

"By the Nine Divines, run!" Feric screamed. He wheeled around on the spot and urged Hassildor along in front of him. Behind them, a banshee scream tore from Raminus's throat and echoed in the corridor. It was followed by a cry for help from the murderer, a cry that ended with a wet gurgle. Feric felt terrible, but was incredibly thankful that the murderer had been there to distract the undead Raminus.

When they passed through the arched doorway into the courtroom, Feric and Hassildor spun and hastened to shove the doors shut behind them.

"Quick," Hassildor said, "seal them shut." He pointed frantically at the doors. "Seal them shut!"

Feric nodded and sent a small beam of white light spiraling toward the door. It hit and the oak glowed for a moment before returning to normal. Just as the spell took effect, something thudded against the other side of the door. Feric flinched, but the door held strong.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief but then turned to Hassildor with sudden frustration. "Why didn't you seal them yourself?"

Hassildor didn't appear to hear his question; that or he ignored it. "Come, now, we must leave this place before any more of Mannimarco's followers arrive!" He was already out the same door the magister had fled through what seemed like hours ago, and Feric hurried to follow him with a begrudging sigh.

Nothing was ever easy when it came to dealing with the Dread Lord. First, Hassildor was to be executed. Then, a Necromancer appeared to take his life after it was clear he would not be lead to the gallows. And now, Raminus was a shambling husk sworn in service to Death itself. What else could possibly go amiss?

Located in the heart of the West Weald highlands, Skingrad was one of the wealthiest and most prosperous cities in the province of Cyrodiil, seconded only by the Imperial City itself. The city lay centered in the western half of the province, a region usually referred to as Colovia, and straddled a considerable dip in the land. A road was constructed in the dip leading from the western gate to the eastern gate and several arched bridges spanned the gap from the north side of the city—often called Hightown, where a large gray wall contained the businesses and guildhalls—to the south—referred to as Low Town, the residential and chapel district. A larger wall encompassed both districts, as well as the two main gates, neither of which stood shorter than one hundred meters.

The city was not well-known for its vistas. Although surrounded by a resplendent countryside, Skingrad's architecture was crafted largely from dull gray stone. However clean, it was not particularly colorful. Instead, Skingrad was celebrated for its illustrious wines and cheeses. Vineyards filled the countryside, with rows upon rows of grapes stretching as far as the eye could see. Large signs were the only indicators of where one vineyard ended and the next begin, with names like _Sully Winery_ printed across them in gilded letters. Spread intermittently throughout the vineyards were the wineries themselves, most of them covered by wooden canopies with men hard at work underneath.

A winding road led southeast from the east gate to Castle Skingrad. Built on a hill that overlooked the entire city, the castle was renowned for being one of the finest structures in all of Cyrodiil, next to the White Gold Tower in the center of the Imperial City and Cloud Ruler Temple northwest of Bruma, the headquarters of the Emperor's elite guardians, the Blades. The serpentine road led from the east gate to the top of a hill where a large archway opened into a bridge that spanned the great distance from that hill to the castle's hill, a bridge lit with always-burning torches on both sides. Below the bridge, cutting through the two hills, was a path leading away from the city, one only frequented by non-merchants traveling north to Chorrol or Bruma.

The castle was by far the tallest and most glorious building in the city; even the Great Chapel of Julianos in Low Town was only half its height and a quarter of its grandeur. Cloud-capped conical spires fingered the sky and crenellated ramparts bordered the castle, where steel-clad guards patrolled day and night, always vigilant, always ready for danger.

The courthouse was located below the castle, with its back against the very same hill. The city's wall had been adjusted to run around it and also around the castle, perhaps a way for Athas to get the point across that he was regent now, not Janus Hassildor. Yet, despite Athas's harsh treatment of the Count and his followers, he allowed nearly everything in the city to remain unchanged. Skingrad still produced the finest wines and cheeses, and its stables bred and groomed some of the finest bays in the land, next to Cheydinhal's mares themselves.

Feric squinted in the bright sunlight outside the courthouse. It was midday, and a fine day at that. He supposed the grape pickers and cattle herders were hard at work right now, sweating and laboring as the sun beat down on their backs. It was difficult to imagine maintaining a normal life under the regime of a dictator, but Feric had to admit that Athas's new system concentrated more on flushing out and eradicating the incursion of Faithful 'insurgents' than altering the everyday life of the people of Skingrad. There was some virtue to that.

"A year ago, I would be dead already," the Count said with a shaky chuckle as he gazed toward the sun. "The Nine bless Bendu Olo for assisting me in that matter."

Feric's lips curved up into a small understanding smile. Hassildor was referring to his past infliction: Porphyric Hemophilia, the vampire disease, the same curse that caused innumerable sun-induced deaths all across the world. He and his wife had been infected with it accidentally while sojourning the West Weald. Unfortunately, his wife, Rona Hassildor, did not survive the ordeal; the curse overtook her like water flooding into an empty pond. The Count did survive, however, and was recently cured of the infliction with the sudden help of an esoteric stranger named Bendu Olo. Hassildor had led a reclusive lifestyle until only a year ago, when he was cured, so he was still familiarizing himself with normality when Athas staged his coup d'état.

"The Nine bless the Champion indeed," he agreed wholeheartedly. "I only wish Olo's whereabouts were known. His disappearance was most untimely." Feric sighed inwardly and muttered, "We could surely use your help right now, Champion."

A horn bayed inside the main gates, and Feric suddenly remembered that they were still in the act of escaping. He had gotten so caught up in the sun and remembering the Champion of Cyrodiil that he'd nearly forgotten he was standing beside the most wanted man in all of Skingrad.

"We'd better get moving," he suggested.

Hassildor didn't budge. "Where are we going to go? There are surely fourscore guards between us and the chapel. We cannot return there now or we will be met by a hundred blades."

Suddenly Feric held up a finger for him to be silent. Hassildor grimaced with plain frustration but complied. A white grin spread on Feric's face. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

The Count listened for a moment, then furrowed his brow. "Is that the sound of battle?"

Feric ran to the wall east of the gate, where a section of it had broken down. He poked his head over the cracked dip in the wall and gazed upon the courtyard beyond. His eyes fell upon a full-scale battle. A battle within the city walls. Feric wasn't sure whether to be terrified or exultant.

"Impeccable timing," Hassildor muttered beside him. "Now is an opportune time to be sneaking into the city while the sun stills shines."

Feric grinned. "Well, let's not waste the opportunity." With a grunt he pushed himself over the wall. He dropped silently onto the grass on the other side and Hassildor landed beside him. Tacitly they begin their surreptitious advance toward the chapel.

Luckily, they were already in Low Town, so it did not take long to reach the chapel. Unfortunately, though, the bulk of the battle raged just outside the chapel doors. Feric examined the participants and distinguished two nearly-even sides—the city guards and a large number of Faithfuls. He watched with amazement as many of the Faithfuls used their weapons like they had been training with them all their lives. He had thought their forces were largely unusable in battle, but he realized now with a joyous revelation that he had been incorrect.

The only clear path he could see that would lead him and the Count safely to the chapel wound around several buildings, through the cemetery, and over numerous hedgerows. Still crouched, he ran swiftly behind the buildings—he recognized one of them as the home of the Sully Brothers, Skingrad's top winemakers—and treaded lightly over the sacred cemetery ground, muttering a short prayer to the Nine Divines to guide the souls of the departed, before moving on to the hedgerows. The hedgerows were short walls crawling with growth tended by the priestesses of the chapel. He clambered over them one at a time, always afraid that one of the guards would spot them and alert his comrades to the presence of the Count. Luckily, the guards were too involved with the enlarging battle to take any notice of them.

The chapel's front doors were ajar. Feric and Hassildor both drew the hoods of their cloaks and tried to put on unassuming facades as they filed into the chapel. Although Feric doubted their veneer was overly convincing, they made it through the double-doors without being stopped. He closed the doors shut behind them with a soft click and took in the peaceful silence in the chapel. Although the sounds of battle still lay heavy on the air outside, the thick walls muffled the din to near nothingness. The sharp contrast between the tumult outside and the quiet inside almost made the chapel's tranquility seem even more serene.

Twelve long pews sat in the center of the chapel, untouched but still kept clean of dust. Five pillars on both sides of them connected the floor and the high vaulted ceiling. Between every two pillars was a chest-high, grooved altar for paying devotion to one of the Nine Divines. Eight of them were planted alongside the pews and pillars, and where a pulpit normally would have stood, there was an even larger altar, gilded, grooved, and with the name JULIANOS embossed in raised golden letters along the front of it. Feric knelt before the altar to repent.

"Father Julianos, I beseech thee to pardon my faults, for history surely shall not. Forgive my errors, overlook my contradictions, and guide me along the path of the righteous and the just." He leaned forward and touched the rim of the altar lightly with his lips. At his touch, glimmering sparks appeared in the shallow basin and enveloped him. He rose to his feet. "Praise be to Father Julianos for accepting my repentance."

He stepped back from the altar as Count Hassildor made his way forward to take his turn at penitence. Again the sparks shimmered to life and whirled around him, forgiveness from Julianos. When Hassildor stood, a voice spoke from the shadows of one of the pillars.

"May peace guide your footsteps, my Children" the priestess said warmly, "and may you always remember that in times of trial, war can be advocated as a means of peace." Her eyes flicked nervously to the doorway. Feric knew she had no reason to fear, though. Although the Faithfuls took refuge in the chapel, she was not involved with them by any means. The guards would not kill an innocent priestess, or even a guilty one for that matter. The laws of the Nine Divines transcended those of man. In this chapel, only Julianos held sway over who was righteous and who wasn't, and how those who weren't would be disciplined. For a guard to arrest or kill a priestess here would be akin to doing so to a princess in her father's presence.

"Do not fret, Sister," Feric reassured her. "You have no affiliation with the Faithful. You are faithful only to the Nine."

She nodded tersely and then turned her back to them to tend to some dust that had gathered on the altar marked KYNARETH. Without hesitation Feric and Hassildor slipped down the staircase near the back to the chapel's living quarters. The stairs led down below the main floor, so a knee-high wall surrounded every side of it except the actual entrance to prevent people from falling in if they did not spot it. Feric didn't think such an issue had yet occurred.

An eerie chill seeped partway through the undercroft doors, a coldness that reminded Feric that Mannimarco had control over the dead.

_No_, he told himself. _Mannimarco has no power here. The Nine protect this chapel. That is why we take refuge here._

They walked past the undercroft, past the chill, and approached the barred door at the end of the hallway. When they reached it, Count Hassildor rapped on the hard wood three times with his knuckles.

Silence. Then, "Yeah?"

Hassildor cleared his throat while Feric kept watch on the hallway behind them. No need not to be wary.

Hassildor pronounced the pass code articulately. "The shepherd will tend his flock. We will return home, and He Who Caused It will be brought to answer for his crimes."

Silence, again. Then the sound of a large wooden bar being slid out from metal hooks. The door opened and a bright pool of light spilled into the dimly lit hallway.

"Welcome home, my Lord."

Oaken bookcases lined the walls, each one's shelves packed to the brim with large spell tomes and other leather-bound volumes. Barrels were heaped into haphazard piles in-between them, some of them with burlap sacks bulging with vegetables and fruits slung over the top. Above the barrels, lit candles burned in curved metal brackets attached to the wall, each one molded from white wax and half-melted. Wisps of smoke rose from some of them.

The main light did not come from the candles, however, but was supplied by the fourteen burning torches paired in conical stands near the entrance and each of the six identical doors set in the back of the oblong room. The doors led to the sleeping quarters; each of the quarters held close to twenty people, if full. Due to insufficiency in space, many of the Faithful had to sleep elsewhere overnight. Some of them were even forced to find shelter outside the walls of the chapel, which meant they were vulnerable to attack from the city guards.

The bulk, though, hid here, in the chapel. It was common knowledge that the guards would bring no manner of violence to a sacred place, and the Chapel of Julianos was just that. Even if the guards were alerted to the Faithful's presence in the chapel—which they were not, yet; if they were, they would post several contingents just outside the chapel doors, waiting for Faithfuls to exit the chapel so they could follow them and then dispose of them when they were away from the hallowed grounds—all guards were both spiritually and legally forbidden from entering the chapel to arrest them. The Imperial Scrolls stipulated that no effort of war or violence would ever be brought to a place of worship, under penalty of death.

In the center of a room sat a long table of well-kept mahogany adorned with silverwork patterns. Most of the Council sat in clusters of high-backed chairs around the table, but others stood with companions in tight knots around the room, muttering approval or disapproval of the events taking place. With the bulk of the Faithfuls embroiled in a fight to the death outside, the place was mostly empty, and it felt that way, too. Even with the hum of conversation and the excitement of the Count's timely return.

At the head of the table sat Archmage Hannibal Traven. He wore a blue silken robe with a small golden rope running across the length of the collar and another one

looped around the waist. With his many wrinkles and the deep lines in his forehead, Traven appeared anything but formidable. Feric knew, though, that such judgment was poor. He had witnessed Traven's true power on several occasions, and still he suspected that he hadn't really seen the height of Traven's ability. He knew without a doubt, though, that the Archmage was the greatest sorcerer alive. Otherwise, he would not be the highest-ranking official in the Mages Guild.

Traven was a Breton, with a full head of kempt white hair, a clean-shaven face, and penetrating blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He wore an indifferent expression, as was usual of him, but Feric sensed a hint of joy in him at seeing Hassildor again.

The Count sat two seats to the right of Traven and directly across from Feric. The power radiating from the other two was nearly palpable. Feric could almost feel it shimmering from them in waves, like summer heat. He inhaled an eager breath and let it out slowly through his nose. With the Archmage and the Count together again, they had a chance at victory once again.

Although there was no designated order structure in the Faithful, it was widely recognized that Traven led the coalition. Although their primary goal was to reappoint Hassildor to Count, it was decided upon that Traven should lead the resistance, for he was the only one with the true capability to accomplish any task given to him. Due to formalities, however, Count Hassildor also held power. Together, he and the Archmage shared control over the resistance, for the most part. There were certain soldiers that only deferred to Hassildor, and soldiers that only deferred to Traven.

Technically, Feric was nothing more than an initiate in the coalition. His rank of Wizard in the Mage's Guild yielded him no authority here, but just as Traven was recognized as their leader, Feric was recognized as one of the top enforcers. Ordinarily

he was the first man called upon for tasks that required a skill set the majority did not possess, and for the higher-risk missions—such as protecting the Count at the hearing and safely escorting him back to the chapel—he was always the first to be notified, and often the only one dispatched. He operated in solitude, but that was the only way he could accomplish the things he did.

Several silver emblazoned carafes sat on the table, some of them with wine stains running down their sides. They were set intermittently across the table, and beside each of them were plates of various cheeses, although all that remained on many of the plates were crumbs. Feric raised his carafe and took a long drink. The wine was cool and rich, with a sharp aftertaste. After he drank he wiped away the wine lingering on his lips with a small napkin.

In the center of the table was a bust of Bendu Olo, the revered Champion of Cyrodiil and Defender of the Realm. Olo had saved the entire world from the destruction that Mehrunes Dagon would have wrought by thwarting the Daedric Prince's plans. Dagon, a Daedric Prince from the realm of Oblivion. Oblivion was many things—a hell ruled by Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction; an ever-changing island kept by the Madgod Sheogorath, Prince of Madness; a realm of disarray vowed to be cleansed by Jyggalag, Prince of Order; a dream-world spiraled by Vaermina, Prince of Dreams and Nightmares. Seventeen Daedric Princes held sway over Oblivion, and each was appropriated with their own plane. But only Dagon had been malicious enough to invade Cyrodiil through means of Oblivion Gates.

Bendu Olo had met Dagon's challenge. This was just after Emperor Uriel Septim VII was assassinated. Olo not only sought out the Emperor's sole surviving heir, but he also stole back the Amulet of King's from one of Dagon's agents, Mankar Camoran. The Amulet was necessary for the heir, Martin Septim, to relight the Dragonfires and thus banish Dagon from the realm. Olo risked his life innumerable times, but after only a short while, the Dragonfires were lit, and although Martin sacrificed himself in the process, Dagon was banished and peace was restored. For a while, anyway.

The last known whereabouts of Olo were in Skingrad, a year ago, when he visited to bestow upon the Count and his wife a cure for his vampirism. Feric had met him, and remembered feeling more excited than he had in all his life, even when he was instated into the Mage's Guild. If he had known the Count would be usurped only days later, he would have begged the Champion to stay. But it was too late now. Olo was nowhere to be seen. A new Emperor not of Septim blood ruled the Empire now, and he left Skingrad to fend for itself against the incursion of Athas, a futile endeavor. Feric sighed inwardly. He wished Olo were still here.

Strangely, little was known about the Champion. Feric had met him, and thus knew Olo was Imperial, but he heard countless tales with discrepancies stating that Olo was a Breton, or a Nord. He had even had one regaled to him that claimed Olo was a Khajiit, a species of feline creatures hailing from Elsweyr, the province south of Cyrodiil.

Feric was pulled out of his thoughts by the conversation around him.

"We need to make a move against them now, while they are distracted," he heard one of the mages declare.

"That's ridiculous," was the response. "Better to do it when they aren't anticipating us. I can guarantee you that they expect us to strike right now. This battle outside is nothing more than their way of trying to flush us out."

Traven gazed absently at the center of the table, engrossed in deep thought. He rested his chin on a propped palm and scratched his cheek idly. Occasionally his lips moved as he muttered something to himself.

Feric didn't know how the Archmage made the decisions he did. A thousand lives rested on the brink of a knife, a knife that Traven balanced on a single finger. At any moment it could tip too far and fall, sending all of the Faithfuls tumbling with it.

"Perhaps we should kill Athas," he heard another councilmember suggest.

"To what point?" the man's companion asked. "All we would gain by doing that is reputation as murderers. We want to earn the populace's sympathy, not their hatred. Passiveness is the only course that will yield us what we desire—peace."

"That may be what you desire," the original man scoffed, "but the rest of us want Athas gone, whether he be dead or alive, and Hassildor reappointed to Count. Honestly, I would prefer Athas be dead. It would send a message to the world."

"Indeed. A message that we are no better than the criminals we fight against. A message that we are as uncivilized as animals."

They'd been sitting there for nearly an hour, listening to the clanging discords of battle outside and considering all possible courses of action against Athas, when Traven finally spoke. His voice alone ushered in immediate silence.

"Suggestions, gentlemen?" he asked with a velvety-smooth voice that spoke nothing of his age.

At once, every man in the room voiced their opinions of what course should be taken. Feric heard the majority shouting things along the lines of storming the castle and killing anybody who stepped in their way. He shook his head disbelievingly.

Traven smiled with slight amusement and held up a hand for them to be silent.

"One at a time, please," he requested, then looked over at the Count. "Janus, would you share your thoughts first?"

Hassildor straightened his back and sat up in his chair. He locked his fingers together on the table. "My pleasure, Archmage," he replied warmly, using Traven's proper title. That was how the two normally conversed—like mentor and pupil. Feric didn't fully understand it, but he guessed it had something to do with their prowess in the arcane arts. Just as all of the Guild's members addressed Traven as Archmage, so did Hassildor.

The Count licked his lips before he began. "Friends, before I spell out my plans—which may not be the best direction, mind—I have something terrible to share with you. Although this news did not come entirely unexpected to me, it may come so to you, so brace yourselves for the worst.

"Today, just after Feric rescued me from the uprising in the courtroom, we broke into the holding cells to search for any of our brothers, so that we could rescue them. Sadly, Raminus Polus was among them, and I am sorry to say that he gave in to his wounds shortly after we found him."

Murmurs spread throughout the mages for the Nine Divine to guide Raminus's soul. Feric muttered his own prayer sorrowfully, but also noticed that the Count made no mention of Raminus's corpse turning on them. _Probably better that way_, he decided.

Hassildor cleared his throat loudly. The murmurs receded, and when they were gone, he continued. "I am afraid that is not the worst of it, my loyal compatriots. The terrible truth is . . . Raminus informed us that Athas is in league with Mannimarco."

The silence vanished as uproar broke out in the room. Feric, the Count, and the Archmage were the only ones who did not react. Feric watched as Traven's impassive face did not reveal even a mite of surprise. If the Count knew about Athas's and Mannimarco's alliance, then surely Traven had known as well. Nothing passed by the Archmage without catching his notice.

Hassildor gestured for them all to be quiet. It took a moment, but eventually the room was silent again. "My friends, trust me, I know how you feel. During my time in the dungeons I had come to suspect this, but having it confirmed was just as awful as hearing it without any suspicion at all.

"I know what many of you are thinking. This is the end. We cannot possibly win against a force as powerful as theirs combined. There is always the chance the guards could fight for us, but that would be a direct violation of my order for them to obey Athas's every word. Surely, all hope is lost.

"I am proof that hope is not lost. Today, I encountered both faces of our enemy. Twoscore guards surrounded me, along with hundreds of New Loyalists. But do you know what happened? The Faithful there overwhelmed the New Loyalists like a flood overtaking a city. And the guards? We defeated them all, we who had no weapons to fight with but our fists and our feet. Then, a full-fledged Necromancer appeared in the chaos."

This part of the recountal brought many gasps from the listeners, but the Count continued without pause. "You heard me right, friends. A Necromancer. And you know what happened then?" His gaze slid over to Feric, and they stared eye-to-eye, as if they were equals. Feric forced away the thought, ashamed he would ever consider himself the Count's equal. Hassildor, however, did not look remotely abashed for suggesting it. "Feric destroyed him."

The mages cheered, their sprits suddenly uplifted. Many of them congratulated and thanked Feric, and those nearby clapped him on the shoulder. He grinned in spite of himself.

Count Hassildor chuckled. "See? Feric killed one of them. They are not undefeatable! They can be killed! We can win!"

More cheers. Then silence, and Hassildor continued.

"What we cannot do is let our knowledge of the Athas-Mannimarco affiliation deter us from our mission. Would a man arm himself with a sword and fear of being run through with it? No! We must realize that nothing has changed. Athas and Mannimarco were in league since the beginning of this upheaval, since the Faithful first formed many months ago. Everything is the same now as it was yesterday, as it was a month ago, as it was a year ago just after my position as Count was taken from me, was taken from _you_!

"Only one thing has changed, my friends. We know what they don't want us to know. And when they learn that we know of their secret affiliation, when they learn that we are not afraid, the advantage will be ours!" He slammed his fists down on the table, and many of the mages cheered. Feric grinned and balled his hands into excited fists. The Faithful had needed to hear that, and Hassildor had delivered in a way that only he could. If only the whole coalition had heard. He was reminded by that thought that his brothers were dying outside, and the grin slipped from his face.

"What are you proposing, Janus?" Traven asked. Although a smile was not present on his lips, Feric saw one shining in his eyes.

Hassildor waited for complete silence before he answered. "It is very simple, Archmage. All we need to do is let them know that we know, and we will have won already."

"And after that?"

"After that?" The Count grimaced, then, and breathed in heavily. "Archmage, after that, we go to war."

When the Count handed the letter to Feric, he reached to open it, but the Count stopped him and said, "You are not to read this."

"Why not?" Feric asked disappointedly. He held out the letter to see if anything was written on the envelope, but found to his disappointment that the paper was blank. Only the letter within had any sign of ink on it, and those were words that Feric could barely see the contours of, even when he stared with the envelope held right up close to his eyes.

"Stop that," Hassildor chided him, and pushed Feric's hand down. "What are you, a child?"

Feric frowned. "Why can't I read it?" He turned to his bay horse and tightened the saddle's girth. The bay whickered uneasily, and Feric stroked her neck reassuringly. She calmed with a final harrumph of a whicker.

"Because those are mine and the Archmage's orders," Hassildor said vexedly. "That letter is for Athas, and Athas alone."

Feric decided to hold his tongue rather than argue. There really was no point in disagreeing with the Count. He shrugged. "Very well. The only eyes to touch upon this are Athas's."

The Count nodded and folded his arms across his chest. "Ensure that it stays that way, Feric. I am not permitted to explain to you why, but that letter can only be read by Athas. Otherwise our entire operation will be in shambles." He strode forward and adjusted the bay's bridle back an inch. The bay flicked her tail, a sign of contentment. Hassildor smiled and patted her on the side. "I'm serious, Feric. You cannot read that."

Feric placed his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. He gripped the reins in one hand and the pommel of his sword in the other. "I won't. Oh, can you undo her hobbles?" he asked after realizing that his mare was immobilized. Hassildor untied the ropes fastening the mare's legs together and unhitched her as well.

Feric nodded his thanks. "I will return as soon as time permits."

"Be careful, Feric," the Count advised. "The ride from here to the Arcane University is a dangerous one, one that will last for the larger part of the day. I wish we had acted before Athas sojourned to the University's ruins, but sadly it is not so. I leave this task to you because I trust you, but I must still warn you that even the roads are dangerous to traverse these days."

Feric gave a small smile. "Do not concern yourself. Everything will go as planned." He clucked at the mare and she began a slow canter forward. "I will return soon."

Hassildor watched him until he was a speck in the distance. "Nine forgive me for what I've done," he muttered to himself. "Nine forgive me."

The Count was correct about the trip to the Imperial City being a lengthy one, and that length was doubled by the fact that Feric stuck strictly to the roads. The wilderness, even if just off the main road, was not somewhere where one wanted to find themselves these days. With the looming inevitably of the attack from Oblivion, daedra—hellish creatures in the servitude of Dagon—had poured into Cyrodiil through the Gates. Then, when the Gates were closed by the Champion, the daedra were trapped in Cyrodiil with no way to return short of death. Although they had lost their sense of direction after their bond to Oblivion was severed by the closing of the Gates, they still meandered aimlessly in the forests, and killed any man, woman, or animal who stepped anywhere near them. Although he stuck to the roads, Feric still spotted daedra several times along the way, and this just encouraged him to urge his mare on toward the Imperial City.

By nightfall of the first day, he spotted lather forming near the brownish-dappled hair of his mare's right flank. Not wanting to ride the bay to death—and because he had no remounts awaiting him along the way—he stopped in a small inn called the Ill Omen, about two–thirds of the way to the Imperial City. Although the inn was empty except for one other person—a male orc that did not meet his eye once—and cheap, too, something about the place other than the way the innkeeper eyed him left him half-awake all night with his sword gripped in one hand. At one point during the night, he thought he heard a scream and he shot bolt upright with his sword raised. After half an hour, when nothing came of it, he relaxed and dosed off for the last few hours before dawn.

Morning came unbidden. Feric awoke to harsh sunlight spilling in through the room's dormer windows. He groaned and tossed off the sheets, cursing at the sun. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He had no desire to ride another twenty kilometers to the Imperial City, but he quickly dismissed any notion that he could stay at the inn another night. After the previous night, he was not sure if he would ever sleep in another inn again.

He paid the innkeeper—who eyed him with the same distrustful look as he had the day before—and departed without stopping to eat. He decided before he even stepped foot outside his room that he would eat the provisions he had brought with him while riding.

His mare—Alessia, he had decided to name her, after Saint Alessia, a human who ended slavery in the early days of Tamriel, the continent that encompassed Cyrodiil—was well rested and eager to set off when Feric walked exited the inn.

It was a fine day for travel. The sun shined high in the sky and clouds were scarce. The trees, bushes, and grass seemed to glow and dance with liveliness. Squirrels chattered, birds twittered, and does pranced through the trees. He passed several farms and was greeted by goats bleating and cows milling about in their fences. Every time, a bright-faced goodwife would bid him a good day as the goodman tended to the herds, and he would return the hello with a genuine grin and a wave.

Green contours of mountains rose and fell in the distance, and the road he followed entered a series of foothills that swelled gradually alongside the cliffs just to the north. He reached the end of the forest of venerable oaks and pines—one of many that Cyrodiil was well-known for—and passed onto a gradual down-slope leading to the Imperial City. The day was so fine, he was almost upset when the Imperial Bridge drew near in his sight

The Imperial City was the capital of the Empire. It sat fixed on a great island in the center of Lake Rumare. The only access to the city apart from sailing or swimming to the island was the Imperial Bridge, a thirty-foot-wide bridge that traversed the great distance between Weye on the mainland—a small settlement of a single farm and an inn—and the island. The bridge itself was nearly a mile long. Three archways with their abutments buried in the earth under the lake rose above the bridge at even intervals, each one burdened with massive torches that served as waypoints in the dark for late-night travelers and arrivals.

Despite the bridge's scale, the city itself made it seem a small accomplishment. The Imperial City sat in the middle of the island and was perfectly circular in shape. In the center of the city was the Green Emperor Way district, containing a burial ground along with the Imperial Palace and its colossal White Gold Tower in the very center, and around it wound a series of additional districts, the most popular being the Arena District and the Market District. The White Gold Tower was constructed by the Ayleids, the first inhabitants of Cyrodiil. St. Alessia rose up alongside the slaves and overthrew them. The White Gold Tower stood as a symbol of the great might of humankind, and also mocked the Ayleids, in a manner. The Emperor's quarters had been constructed into the highest part of the tower, so that the Emperor could climb to the crenellated platform at the very top and gaze down upon his sprawling Empire.

Feric wondered if the Emperor stood atop the Tower right now. He wondered if the Emperor could see him, if the Emperor knew how much trouble the Faithful had gone through due to his negligence. Slowly Feric turned his gaze away from the Tower and clucked at Alessia, who took up a slow trot to the city's main gates.

He passed through many throngs of pleasant people on the bridge. The archways cast long shadows that cooled him as he passed under them. He did not time how long it took him to cross the bridge, but by the time he reached the end, the sun was higher in the sky than it had been when he first started across. Finally he came to a stop at the stables on the other side.

Compared to the city and the bridge, the Chestnut Handy Stables were surprisingly remote both in size and location. They appeared to have been shoved into a corner between the end of the bridge and the foot of the main gate as an afterthought. Feric dismounted his bay and led her to the stables, where he was greeted by an orcish woman named Snak gra-Bura, the stable's main groomer.

"Welcome to Chestnut Handy Stables," she greeted him warmly. "How may I be of service on this fine afternoon?"

Feric handed her the reins and asked, "How much for a day? I'll pick her up tomorrow around this time, unless something comes up."

Snak folded the reins in her hands and stroked Alessia below the mane. "Five septims per hour, Sir. If you come back at this time tomorrow, it will be approximately one hundred septims."

Feric blanched. _One hundred septims? An inn only cost ten per night! _Then again, this was the only stable in the vicinity of one hundred miles, so he didn't have much of an option.

"Very well," he said grudgingly. "I will have the money ready for you when I return." He turned to head up the hill toward the main gates as the orcish woman led Alessia through the stable's fences with a small smile on her green lips.

The main gates were wide open, and a crowd milled about on both sides of them, as well as right underneath the sally port. He had to force his way through the crowd to enter the city, which earned him several dirty looks. Nervously he glanced up at the watchtowers. Both towers were within the gates, one planted on each side. Atop them was a handful of guards, one of whom watched Feric's every step. The tower tops, encircled by chest-high crenellated walls, looked ten paces across, big enough to hold more than just the guards Feric could see. He ducked his head and hurried through the crowd. No need to draw any attention to himself.

Once past the crowd, Feric followed the street that curved to the right. The Arcane University was located southeast of the entrance, built in a way that separated it from the city by a long road. From where he was, that was to the right. He hurried, taking long strides but moving just slow enough to not attract any unwanted attention from the seemingly numberless guards who strolled the streets.

Two-story houses were crammed cheek-to-jowl on both sides of the streets, with no more than an inch of space between the walls of each one. One door bore a notice nailed into the wood. Feric slowed to read it but hurried off when his eyes skimmed over the words 'Dark Brotherhood.' He would have enough difficulty getting this letter to Athas without stopping to read a notice involving that notorious group of assassins the Dark Brotherhood.

By the time he made it through the Talos Plaza District, it was already well past midday. Breathing heavily and sweating from the sweltering summer heat, he passed through the sally port into the Arboretum District but came to an immediate halt on the other side.

He swallowed heavily and swore a thousand times in his mind. The entrance to the Arcane University was cordoned off by a heavy line of armored guards, and they were no Imperial guards. These guards wore bright steel armor and conical helmets with open faceguards. Each wore a crimson cockade on their breastplate, marking every one of them an officer.

To avoid drawing any suspicion to himself, Feric continued forward but altered his path so that it no longer led toward the Arcane University but toward one of the many vistas of green featured in the center of the Arboretum. He pretended to study the plants while he formulated a plan in his head. It did not take long for him to realize that there was no way through the guards short of getting captured. Even if he exited the city and followed the outside of the walls, there would surely be additional guards posted on the road leading to the University. Incarceration by Athas's guards promised a suffering death.

"By the Nine Divines," he muttered. "Now what?"

It took no longer than a moment for his fear of being captured to dissuade him from approaching the guards. Reluctantly, he turned to leave. Every step seemed longer than the last. By leaving, he was shirking his duties to the Count, to the Archmage. To himself. He knew he could not leave the city. Torn between delivering the letter and exiting the Arboretum, his feet took him back to the Talos Plaza District, and into an inn named the King and Queen Tavern.

Unlike the Inn of Ill Omen, the King and Queen was full to bursting with raucous citizens, nearly each of them as stone drunk as the next. He waited for a spot at the bar to clear and rushed to it before any other of the patrons could take the seat. He ordered a beer, and the bartender whipped it up for him in a quick second.

He stayed there all night, until the last of the patrons staggered home. He hardly sipped at his beer. Eventually, the bartender took it away and told him to either purchase a room for the night or leave, because the bar was closed. He tossed twenty septims onto the bar and murmured that he would take a room.

"Upstairs, very end on the left," the bartender replied. He nodded and made his way to the room.

He didn't sleep that night. He tried to, but rest evaded him as surely as his courage did. Why was he so afraid to deliver the message? Was it because he knew he could not succeed without dying? If he was captured by Athas's guards, he would die, he knew that with certainty. He also knew that there was no way to deliver the letter without being captured. But was that enough reason to shirk his duties? Or was he just being a coward?

"Why would you put me in this situation, Archmage?" he muttered angrily. He rubbed his eyebrows furiously, until they were sore, and then threw himself onto the bed. For a long while he stared at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, he sat up and rose from the bed. He walked to the desk, sat down, and removed the letter from his coat. If he was going to die for this, he demanded to know what for.

To his surprise, the letter was blank. He stared at it for a moment, and then asked to nobody in particular, "What?"

He flipped through the pages and examined each one thoroughly, but there was no writing to be found. Even the ink he had seen through the envelope had disappeared.

Of a sudden he divined the answer.

This was spell paper, not a letter. The ink he had seen was Scrawl still freshly written, so it had not faded yet. He rubbed his eyes and then stared harder at the paper, reading the scrawl. He was taken aback by what he found.

It was a trap, one rigged to explode and kill anybody who read it. The Archmage wanted to destroy the University.

_Why would he want that?_

Suddenly Feric realized that Athas was here, at the University, for the knowledge they kept there. Tomes, records, hidden archives, everything in the University contained information that they had intended to keep away from people like Athas. The Archmage wanted to destroy it all, and kill Athas in the process.

He paled with sudden realization and looked down at the parchment. He had read the letter, against direct orders. That is why the Count had restricted him from looking at it. To save him. And now he had done what could have been easily prevented. He was either going to die from the spell or from Athas's guards.

He swore loudly and slammed his fist into the table. That was it, then. His destiny was sealed.

He slowed his breathing. This was meant to be. All of it, the trial, the Necromancer, Raminus . . . all events led him here, to his moment, where he could either restore order to Skingrad or allow Mannimarco's evil to swallow it. From there, the Dread Lord would strike out against all of Cyrodiil, and then slowly his evil would consume the entire world.

"I have to do it," Feric whispered. "I have to die for this."

First, though, he had other business to attend to.

He procured a clean piece of parchment from within the desk and pressed the tip of his quill to it. He read the words aloud as he wrote them.

"Emperor Sorius," he began. "Your Empire lays in the path of a great danger, one far greater than any posed before. My name is Feric Albest, and I am writing this letter to beseech your help against the looming darkness of Mannimarco."

Traven sat forward in his chair. "He's read it," he said, and glanced up at the Count.

Hassildor sighed sadly. Tears welled up on the brims of his eyelids. "Feric?"

Traven nodded. "It was as we predicted. He read it hours ago, actually. I can't fathom why it took so long to—" He stopped suddenly. "Okay, Athas has just read it, too. Best we do this now and put Feric out of his misery. I can only imagine the torture they are putting him through. Would you like to?"

Hassildor nodded and slowly got to his feet. Traven stepped out of his way and he approached the desk shoved in the corner of the room. A blank piece of parchment rested on the desk, with two ink spots in center. The Count lifted his fingers and pointed at the parchment. Suddenly it was alight. The parchment burned to ash instantly, and moments later they heard an explosion in the distance, muffled by the walls around them.

Traven held up a hand and the fire winked out. He sighed sadly. "It is done, then. The University and Athas are destroyed, and Feric has been put out of his misery."

Hassildor turned to face him. His voice was heavy with frustration. "Misery that we forced upon him. Why Feric? Why couldn't we have sent somebody else?"

Gingerly, Traven held up a hand to calm him. "There is no way for me to explain it that will take away the pain, Janus. It had to be this way. Otherwise, we would have no chance against Mannimarco. With Athas dead, you can retake your throne, and the battle against the Necromancers can be prolonged for as long as possible."

"What if I choose not to help you?" Hassildor growled. "I lost one of my greatest friends and most loyal subjects due to your supposed need to send him to his death."

Traven stared at the Count intently. He spoke with a gentleness that had more threat behind it than a blade. "We agreed on this, Janus. My Guild helped you get rid of the usurper—at the cost one of my best men, I might add—and now you are to assist us in the battle against Necromancy until Mannimarco lies dead at my feet."

"You speak of Feric's death as if it could not have been prevented!" Hassildor shouted. His face turned a deep shade of red. "It is your own fault he died! If not for you, he would be alive right now!"

"No, he would not!" Both men were on their feet. "What makes you think he would be alive still? For all you know, we would _all_ be dead!"

"Those words are the most foolish to have ever left your mouth, Archmage! There is no possible way that we all would lay dead right now if Feric had not been sent."

"I sent Feric because any other man would have wilted under his task and come scurrying back to Skingrad!" Traven shouted. Heavy breaths filled the sudden silence. "Only Feric had the courage to sacrifice himself in the name of something bigger than all of us! Even if he had not read the letter, he would have gone through with it, because he is a greater man than either of us. That," he said, "is why I sent Feric."

They were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Traven sighed vexedly and bellowed, "Enter!"

The door creaked open and a small man poked his head through the opening.

"Sirs?" he asked. "There is someone here to see you. He . . . well, he is important."

"Who is it?" Hassildor asked, his anger thinning out.

The man hesitated. "Er . . . well, um, perhaps you should just see him for yourselves, Sirs."

Hassildor and Traven shared a look and filed out of the room after the messenger.

Outside, in the main room, both walls were hidden behind lines of Imperial Legion soldiers. At the end of the table sat High Chancellor Ocato, and beside him, a young black-haired man dressed in extravagant clothing. Around his neck he wore a large pendant, a Red Diamond held in a golden clasp with eight smaller gems set into it. On the other side of the black-haired man sat Grandmaster Jauffre, leader of the Blades, and beside him, his top lieutenant, Baurus. Gathered behind them all, clad with the famous Akiviri armor and weapons that they were known for, stood the rest of the Blades.

The black-haired man stood, and all at once the guards—both soldiers and Blades—dropped to their knees. Hassildor and Traven stood motionless, gaping at the gathering and wondering how they had all come here without either one of them noticing.

The black-haired man cleared his throat. "My name is Enheim Sorius, and I am your Emperor," he declared loudly.

Immediately both the Count and the Archmage fell to their knees. "Praise be to the Emperor!" they chanted as one. "Praise be to the Dragonfires."

The Emperor smiled softly, then. "Rise, my friends. I have not come here to proclaim myself your Emperor, but instead to discuss a dire matter with you."

"My Lord?" Traven asked.

The Emperor folded his hands. "Early this morning I received a letter from a man named Feric Albest. He told me that soon he would walk to his death. He was to sacrifice himself in the name of the Champion of Cyrodiil, to bring righteousness to Skingrad and to dole out justice to the Dread Lord, Mannimarco.

"I must ask your forgiveness. The Elder Council was infiltrated by Mannimarco's agents, and they have hid the truth of the dire conditions of Skingrad from me for many months. When Athas arrived at the ruins of the Arcane University, I knew something was amiss. I had never heard of Athas before this morning, but he carried himself with the presence of a king and the army of one as well. Feric informed me that he was going to sacrifice himself to kill Athas and destroy the University, in order to prevent Mannimarco from stealing the sacred knowledge contained within. Judging from the explosion that rocked the realm only moments ago, I assume that this task has been carried out."

Hassildor nodded. "Yes, my Lord, it has."

The Emperor nodded sadly. "It is done then. Feric Albest is dead. A great man, he was, to sacrifice himself for such a cause. Few have the courage to fulfill such a task, myself included. Luckily, he informed me of the terrible events occurring before . . . before he was embraced by the Nine Divines." The amulet around his neck glowed for a moment, and he touched it with his fingertips. "This is the Amulet of Kings. The smaller gems represent the original Eight Divines and Tiber Septim, the Ninth Divine, is represented by the Chim-el Adabal in the center." He indicated the large red diamond held in the golden clasp.

"My thoughts and prayers go with Feric, as well as yours. I cannot tell you much, other than that the Nine are pleased with him. Very pleased. Never has such a sacrifice been made since Bendu Olo stormed the Planes of Oblivion, since Saint Alessia freed the humans from Ayleid control.

"Now, though, we must move onto business," he said. "I understand that the evil of Necromancy grows stronger every day. I will not brook such a threat to my Empire, or any Empire. Soon, the threat will have to be quelled, or Mannimarco may very well grasp control of half of the world, and by then it will be too late to end his terrible reign. I come to you today with but a portion of my sprawling armies." He gestured to his kneeling soldiers with a wide sweep of his hand. "They have come to represent their brothers, just as your brothers represented you in the battle just outside the chapel. A battle that, with the help of my Legion, you have won."

Hassildor grinned, but Traven remained impassive. The Archmage raised his hand to indicate that he wished to speak. "My Lord, how many survived the onslaught?"

The Emperor smiled softly. "With the superior healing powers of the Elder Council mages I brought along with me, the majority will survive. The battle ceased from my presence alone. When the guards were informed that Count Hassildor was back in power—" he gestured kindly to the Count, who drew himself up proudly— "they were quick to stop the fighting.

"Now, as I said, onto business. My scouts are actively searching for Mannimarco's whereabouts. I expect to find him within weeks. Then, we go to war."

Both the Count and the Archmage nodded eagerly. Hassildor could not express his joy at these events. Finally, everything was beginning to turn in their favor. With the Legion on their side, there was no way they could be defeated. If only Feric was here to see it all.

The Emperor chuckled. "Good, good. You will need that enthusiasm when we march to war. First, though, I have somebody I would like you to meet. You may know him already." He glanced over his shoulder and the Blades parted as an Imperial man strode forward to stand beside the Emperor.

Hassildor's mouth dropped open and he stared in awe.

Bendu Olo folded his arms across his chest and grinned. "I understand we have a war to win?"

**THE END**


End file.
